Complete Mia Kazmaroff Romantic Suspense Series, 1-4

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  Big difference.

  Mia did not know what to say to this new Jack. She sat up straight on the couch and set her tumbler down, as if she might need both hands to deal with this conversation.

  “Look, Jack, I know you’re upset about something,” she said. “I felt your football trophy. I know something’s wrong.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re touching my stuff? Do you have a clue of how invasive that is?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just so sure something was wrong with—”

  “The only thing that’s wrong, Mia, is you crossing major boundaries with me. I can’t believe you followed me.”

  “It’s only because I know something is going on.”

  “What’s going on is I can’t work with you when you behave like this.”

  His words hit her like a jack hammer to the stomach. She literally bent over as she heard them. “Jack, listen to me,” she said. “She…she had a…meeting yesterday,” she continued, feeling her desperation like a living thing hunched on her shoulder, “with a man.”

  “You followed her?”

  “I’ll send you the photos, Jack,” Mia said, tears coursing down her cheeks as she spoke. How could things have gone so wrong, so quickly? “I’ll send them to your phone and you can decide for yourself what’s going on.”

  “Don’t come here again,” he said gruffly. “Do you hear me? Do not follow Sandy, or me. Or anyone connected to me. Is that clear?”

  “Jack, if you can just listen to me—”

  “For God’s sake, Mia, give it a rest.” He hung up and Mia fought to ignore the emotions ripping through her as she stared at the phone in her hand. She needed to focus. Not think of his hurtful words, or how angry he was with her. She took in a long breath and dropped the phone on the couch. She closed her eyes and shook out her hands, as if she could shake away the conversation, the things he’d said.

  But his words and his harsh voice reverberated in her head like a wave that kept refreshing and receding, bringing the pain back stronger and stronger each time she remembered it.

  Do not follow Sandy or me or anyone connected to me.

  She didn’t have to touch him to know he was done with her. She grabbed her knees and brought her face to them, pulling her legs up on the couch. She smelled the scent of the horse she’d ridden today, the sunbaked perfume of the autumn air, sweat and sweet feed trapped in her hair and her sweatshirt. Her shoulders shook as she cried in great wracking sobs.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  There was no doubt he’d gone off the deep end with Mia.

  Jack dragged a hand through his hair as he sat in his car outside of Sandy’s house. Sometimes he just needed to be away from the tension, the suffocating grief and expectation that blanketed that house and everyone in it.

  He knew it wasn’t fair to come down so hard on Mia when he’d given her nothing to hang onto, but he just couldn’t deal with her craziness on top of everything else. He dug his fingernails into his palms and welcomed the pain. I can’t deal with you right now, Mia. I’ve got something bigger than both of us going on and if there’s any way to the other side of this nightmare, you’ve got to back off and let me deal with it.

  Jack slammed his hand against the steering wheel.

  Why the hell hadn’t the bastard called? Is this the end? Do we just wait until a body shows up in Lake Lanier? Am I just supposed to sit here and do nothing?

  His phone chimed indicating a text message had come through.

 

  He couldn’t give her any encouragement by responding. Twyla’s life could well depend on what he did next.

  Goddam it. He’d rather rip his fingernails out one by one than just sit here and do nothing.

  The front door of the house opened and Sandy stood silhouetted in the doorway, looking for him. He opened his car door and stood up. It was already dark but not late. He could tell by the way she stood there that it wasn’t urgent. She was just looking for him.

  “You need me?” he called to her.

  She shook her head but didn’t go back inside. That meant she needed him. He locked the car and met her on the porch.

  “You told her to stay away?” Sandy’s eyes were clearly red-rimmed even in the half-light of the front steps.

  “She won’t come here again.”

  She nodded and turned to go back inside. He smelled fried chicken cooking and realized Vernetta was in the kitchen.

  “Mama’s making Twyla’s favorite,” Sandy said, her voice shaking. “She says it helps.”

  “I know how she feels,” he said, running a hand up Sandy’s bare arm until it rested on her shoulder. He gave her a slight squeeze. “Did you nap?”

  She shook her head. “I need a drink. Will you pour me one?”

  He walked into the living room where she kept the bar, set his phone down on the counter and noticed that the text from Mia included a photograph. His stomach flopped painfully. What was it she said? She’d taken pictures? He picked up the phone and opened her text. Five photos were attached. He scrolled through them, his astonishment growing with each one.

  “Jack? Is there ice?” Sandy called from the living room.

  He backed away from the bar and turned to face her where she sat on the couch.

  “Who did you meet yesterday?” he asked.

  “What?” She looked at him and her lip began to tremble.

  “Holy shit, Sandy.” He waved his phone at her. “What the hell is going on?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about photos of you sitting in your car talking to some guy when you were supposedly meeting with your prayer group.”

  A vein pulsed in his forehead as he gestured with the phone, his face flushed with fury. Sandy stood up, her eyes darting from his face to his phone. She licked her lips.

  “May I see them, please?”

  He held out his phone to her and put his hands on his hips. “Who is he?”

  She scrolled through the photos, then sat down quickly, as if her legs had given out on her.

  “Is it Eugene?” Jack said. “Did you fucking meet with your daughter’s kidnapper and not tell me? Are you shitting me?”

  “Yes, I met with him,” she said, her hands shaking as she held the phone. “I had to. He called yesterday when you were in the shower and said he wanted a face-to-face. What was I supposed to do?”

  “You could’ve told me.”

  “You would’ve stopped me, you know you would. And he said to come alone. I had no choice!”

  “So you drove to wherever this was and met him?”

  “I thought he’d let her go if I did. I’m sorry, Jack.” She put her hands to her face and broke down completely, sobbing into her hands. “I just want my little girl back. I’d meet the devil himself to get her back.”

  Jack sank down onto the couch next to her. He put a hand on her back.

  “So it’s really Eugene,” he said.

  She nodded her head and looked up from her hands, her face streaked with mascara. It made Jack’s stomach grab to think she finally tried to put some makeup on again after four days, only to cry it all off the first time she did.

  “We were at a dead end, you know we were, Jack. And when he called, I thought I’d get her back or get information or something.”

  “What did he say?”

  She shook her head. “Just ranted,” she said, choking back more tears. “Just screamed at me, about how much he hated me, how much he wanted to see me pay.”

  “And nothing about Twyla?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when you came back?”

  “He says he has the place bugged,” she said, looking around her living room as if trying to spot the listening devices.

  Is Eugene really that technologically sophisticated he could wire Sandy’s house? With everyone in it?

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said. “But you weren’t doing…I mean things
weren’t moving and I was just so desperate.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, putting an arm around her.

  Vernetta came into the living room. “You think you two could lay off jumping each other’s bones long enough to come to the table? Supper’s ready.”

  “Smells great, Vernetta,” Jack said as he picked up his phone and looked at the photos. The man was clearly animated in the photos. In one, Jack could see he was waving a fist in Sandy’s face. The thought of Sandy meeting this lunatic alone—

  “Oh, Jack!” Sandy said suddenly pulling away from him. “I just remembered something.” She ran to the foyer and grabbed her purse, then hurried back and held something out to him.

  “It fell out of his jacket,” she said breathlessly. “When he was in my car. I didn’t find them until I got home.”

  Jack took the book of matches from her. Quincy’s on Howell Mill.

  “I think we just got a break,” he said.

  *****

  The last thing Mia felt like was dinner with her mother and Maxwell. But she knew her excuses wouldn’t be believed and the two of them would come racing over to Atlantic Station to see for themselves.

  No, this was painful. But it was still somewhat—marginally—just barely, better than the alternative.

  “You want to explain this?” Maxwell said to her as he turned her chin to better catch the light.

  “You’re a cop and don’t know what a black eye is?” Mia said, jerking her chin from his grasp.

  Jessie hurried over to the couch, a dishtowel still in her hands.

  “How did you get it?” she asked Mia, her solemn face insistent on no-nonsense answers.

  “I got mugged. No big deal. Atlanta’s a big, dangerous city. It happens.”

  “I knew we shouldn’t let her live in Atlantic Station,” Maxwell said, nodding to himself as if he’d had this argument many times.

  There were so many things wrong with that statement, starting with the we, that Mia didn’t know where to begin.

  “Atlantic Station is practically a part of the Georgia Tech campus,” Mia said. “And I wasn’t attacked there anyway.”

  “We’re waiting,” Maxwell said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Does it matter where? I was on a stakeout, if you must know.”

  “What case is this?”

  “Must I get the third-degree every time I come by for damn dinner?” Mia said, standing up from the couch.

  Maxwell pressed two fingers against her shoulder and she toppled back into her seat with a groan.

  “You’re not going anywhere, young lady,” he said, “until your mother and I get some answers.”

  Don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it… But she had to say it. “You’re not my father.”

  “Mia!” her mother said, frowning her disapproval. “I won’t have you fussing at Bill when his only crime is caring about you, so I’ll need you to apologize right this minute.”

  “Sorry,” Mia mumbled.

  “Secondly,” Jessie continued, “you will tell me right this minute how you came to be mugged.”

  Mia sighed. She’d had some hopes that the evening might serve as a distraction from the hours of sitting curled up in a fetal position listening to sad Carly Simon music and wishing she’d never met Jack Burton. Instead, Carly was starting to look like a lot less trouble.

  “I was taking pictures and not paying attention to my surroundings,” she said, glancing at Maxwell. “I was focused on my subject.”

  “Which is why you should be doing this in tandem,” Maxwell said.

  Unspoken message: where the hell is Jack?

  “I know,” she said, feeling the energy, the fight and the indignation drain away. As if he could read her mind, Maxwell sat down next to her and put his arm around her in an awkward hug. She hadn’t mentioned her bruised ribs yet so she stifled the groan of pain as he hugged her.

  “If it’s any consolation,” he said gruffly, “he totally fooled me, too. And I worked with the man for over twelve years. I always knew he was an acquired taste, but deep down solid. I thought.”

  Jessie took her hand and squeezed it. “Have you talked to him?”

  “Oh, yes, trust me, I have,” Mia said, fighting the tears gathering in her eyes. “It was all the talking that made me want to binge on Netflix with a giant bowl of Ben and Jerry’s.”

  “I’m so sorry, darling,” Jessie said, her eyes looking like they were about to tear up too.

  “Well, we may not be able to do anything about Jack,” Maxwell said, patting Mia’s knee and standing up, “but we can damn sure do something about you not getting your ass kicked next time you’re on a stakeout.”

  “Gosh, you say the nicest things,” Mia said, sniffling and allowing the self-indulgent satisfaction of her pain to radiate through her body. Let’s all hate Jack. It feels surprisingly good for all of us to hate Jack.

  “But the bottom line is,” she said, “I can’t figure out the kung-fu moves. I can’t shoot. And I can’t pull off a simple stakeout without getting mugged by an eighty-pound homeless guy. I need to face the fact of what everyone has been telling me and just quit this whole stupid idea.”

  “Come on, now,” Maxwell said, holding a hand out to Mia. “Back on the horse, girl. Every skill takes practice and pain and time.”

  “Dear God, where did you meet this Hallmark Card?” Mia grumbled to her mother, but she allowed him to pull her to her feet.

  “Okay,” he said, his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me. Did he come at you from behind?”

  Mia rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Do we really have to do this?”

  “Yes, dear,” Jessie said. “Dinner isn’t for thirty minutes yet.”

  “From behind?” Maxwell persisted.

  “Yes,” Mia said with exaggerated patience. “I was squatting, taking pictures and he grabbed the strap of it—” She looked in the direction of the kitchen where her mother had disappeared.

  “It’s okay,” Maxwell said, frowning. “She’s out of earshot.”

  Mia nodded and swallowed. Truth be told, she’d avoided thinking about the attack. It wasn’t just embarrassing because she’d lost a three thousand-dollar camera—plus the photos that would have identified the people in the SUV without question. The fact was, the whole incident had scared the crap out of her.

  “He jerked the strap so that it pulled me off balance and onto my side,” she said, rubbing her ribs without knowing she was. “And then he kicked me in the face before ripping the camera totally away.”

  She looked at Maxwell’s face and was startled to see it had gone white with fury.

  “He kicked you in the face? That’s how you got the shiner?”

  She nodded. He was clenching his fists now and rubbing them up and down his pant leg like he wanted to punch something. Badly.

  “And you’re favoring your ribs.”

  She was surprised he picked up on that, but she had to admit he missed very little.

  “He kicked me again before I could move away,” she said.

  “So you were not able to retaliate in any way.”

  Mia appreciated the fact he put it that way. Sounded a lot better than the truth, which was she had to run away or risk getting hurt worse. She watched Maxwell get a grip on himself and force a bleak smile in her direction.

  “Fine,” he said. “First thing I’m going to show you is how to break the grip on anybody taking you from behind. We’ll move on from there. Ready?”

  Knowing that Maxwell believed the best way to prevent anyone from attacking her again would be just to go into another line of work, Mia felt a flush of gratitude and affection for the big burly policeman.

  “Ready,” she said, surprising herself as she felt her mood lift for the first time since her conversation with Jack.

  *****

  Quincy’s was a well-known dive. Or as well-known as seedy, cheap bars can be on the wrong side of Atlanta. In the fifteen years Jack had worked in Major Crimes for the Atl
anta Police Department, he’d seen the place draped in yellow police tape more times than he hadn’t.

  He hadn’t been able to positively ID Gilstrap from the photos Mia sent. He easily identified Sandy. He figured the guy in the photos was Gilstrap from his size and the big shaven head. As Jack drove down the darkened streets toward the warehouse section of Atlanta, he found it nearly impossible to believe that not only Sandy but also Mia had come here the day before—and he had not had a clue.

  A twinge gutted him when he thought of Mia. If it hadn’t been for her following Sandy and taking the photos, he wouldn’t be tracking down the one solid lead he had in the whole bloody mess. It didn’t change the fact that she’d followed him—staked out Sandy’s house, for God’s sake—but if she hadn’t, he’d be nowhere right now.

  Set on a side street off Howell Mill, the bar was easy to miss. A bare light bulb hung outside a single wooden door against a windowless brick wall. No signage, no bouncer, no neon, nothing to alert passersby that a drinking and gambling establishment lay within.

  Jack parked on the sidewalk behind a rusted-out pickup truck and touched the Sig Sauer he kept in his waistband. He turned off his cell phone and tossed it in the glove compartment. Quincy’s boasted a rough crowd, but if everything he knew about Eugene Gilstrap was true, that just made it the kind of place he would migrate toward.

  Jack pulled open the front door and a cloud of cigarette smoke billowed out. Country music played inside but it wasn’t loud. People who are concentrating on eliminating their sobriety didn’t need the emotional distraction of songs that might remind them of responsibilities, happier times or non-oblivion.

  The inside of the bar was one cavernous room, anchored on one wall by a scarred wooden bar. Two television sets hung on the wall. Only one worked. A dozen heads swiveled towardJack as he stepped inside. It was dark, the way drunks liked it, and he had to wait until his eyes adjusted to make out the forms around him. The floor was sticky.

  Gilstrap would be easy to find. If he wasn’t here yet—it was still early at nine o’clock—it didn’t matter. Jack would wait him out. His plan was simple. Watch for him, then follow him. If he led Jack back to where he was keeping Twyla, great. If not…Jack would come up with another plan.